Staying Ahead
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: When a witch asked him which he'd rather keep, his legs or his hair, Sam hesitated. So, naturally, she took everything below his jaw, and now Dean is stuck taking care of him. Which might not be such a bad thing, Sam realizes. WARNING: Contains light body horror and gore.


Morning sunlight flooded the car, finding every reflective surface it had and lighting them up like miniature suns. It was blinding, making Sam automatically squint against the glare off door handles and radio dials. Dean would've bitched out loud, usually. Flipped the sun visors down, growled it was like being inside a damn disco ball, then immediately apologized to the Impala for the insult. Because they'd been driving since late last night, he might've even complained about Sam's hair being too shiny. Dean was in a long-term, monogamous relationship with chronic sleep deprivation at this point, but missing his three or four hours still made him irritable.

They were trying to get home as fast as possible, which meant barely stopping for gas, much less sleep. Dean wasn't eager to parade Sam around in public, which Sam didn't blame him for, and this was a curse that needed broken immediately. That was why they were driving through obnoxious light at an hour of the morning when, the day after a hunt wrapped up, they normally would've still been in their motel room.

And Dean normally would've made a big, whiny deal about that light. But he didn't say a word. Because he was mad. At Sam.

Sam's usual reaction to Dean being mad at him was to get mad right back. Righteous anger, because Dean tended to get pissed at stuff he didn't understand or couldn't see through a filter of hypocrisy. Today, though, Sam couldn't seem to get past "mildly embarrassed" here in the passenger seat. Because even though he was about ninety-nine percent sure this wasn't his fault, it was a giant pain. And just so goddamn stupid.

So he and Dean hadn't talked since last night. Sam didn't want to be the one to break that stony silence, but he was getting more uncomfortable by the second.

He'd bruised his jaw, deep into the meat and maybe all the way to the bone, when he fell almost six feet onto a hardwood floor. His teeth ached, too, where they'd slammed together. There wasn't as much damage as there could've been, near as Sam could tell from running his tongue obsessively around his mouth. Just a couple chips that might have to be addressed eventually...and _not _by Dean with a pair of pliers, which was always his go-to dental suggestion.

It all hurt, and the car was making it so much worse. Sam didn't notice the powerful thrumming of the engine so much when all of him was present. But it wasn't right now. With his skull more or less resting directly on the metal frame, only soft-worn leather between him and it, Sam felt like his brain was shaking down to liquid.

He cleared his throat. Kind of. He didn't really have a throat anymore, but he was definitely clearing something.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean asked flatly, not bothering to turn down the music he was blaring. Sam swallowed down his kneejerk "sorry." This wasn't his fault.

"D'you...d'you think you could maybe put a coat or something under me?" Sam asked tentatively. "The vibrating's really starting to get to me."

"Oh, the vibrating," Dean all but exclaimed, sarcastic. "And you want a coat." Sam could see, out of the corner of his eye, Dean's clenched jaw. "Sure you don't wanna use your hair? Since it's more important to you than your legs and all."

"I never _said _that!" Sam protested. "It was just...it was such a weird question, I had no idea how to answer, and she - "

"Yeah, I know." Dean cut him off. "I was there." He threw a hand up, let it slap back down onto the wheel. "You really want me to waste time pullin' over and making you comfy? Fact you didn't get all your spare parts back when I ganked the bitch means whatever she did to you's packing some serious mojo. Wouldn't you rather get back to the bunker quick as we can and get ahead of this?"

There was a pause, and Sam eyed Dean as hard as he could without being able to turn and look at him.

"Seriously wasn't on purpose, I swear," Dean said, not at all apologetically.

"Well, I didn't wind up like this on purpose, either," Sam snapped, then forced himself to dial it back. "Dude, c'mon. I've got a headache. I'm getting carsick."

Dean laughed, but he didn't really sound amused. "What're you gonna do, throw up? From where?"

Sam opened his mouth to retort (not that he had any idea what he was going to say), but Dean cut him off again.

"Fine, whatever, long as it'll shut you up...gimme a second."

Sam heard Dean shift on the seat, and then he reached over and grabbed him. By the hair. Sam winced silently, but didn't say anything.

He might've been afraid Dean was about to throw him out the window. If they didn't know each other at all. But Dean had been a part of Sam's life, the _center _of Sam's life, for thirty-odd too many years, and his hunting partner for a decade too long, for him to worry about something like that. No matter how pissed he was.

Sure enough, Dean didn't roll down the window. He dumped Sam in his lap instead, on top of his thighs, and steadied him with a palm on his scalp.

"There. Better?"

Sam was too surprised to answer right away. He didn't remember the last time he sat on Dean's lap, in the car or otherwise. He could feel the rocky muscles of Dean's thighs against his tender jaw, Dean's belt buckle and the barely-noticeable swell of his belly against the back of his head. His stubble caught on Dean's jeans.

"Uh, yeah." Sam cleared his throat again. "Thanks."

"Great." Dean coughed. "We're a few hours out from Lebanon, and if I hear any bitching, you're going right back in the passenger seat." His voice dropped to a mutter. "Lucky I didn't just stick your ass in the trunk with all the other crap."

All Sam could see was the bottom half of the wheel and Dean's legs, bowed as they'd been for basically ever, stretching into the footwell. That view was gonna get old quick.

After a bit, Sam asked, "So, I know we killed the witch. But are we sure we got all her vampires?"

After a beat of silence, Dean said, "Yeah."

"You _positive_?" Sam pressed.

"Yeah, Sammy, I swept the damn warehouse myself while you were 'I can't feel my legs'-ing. Now shut up, you're givin' _me _a headache."

* * *

"I really wish you'd taken me with you," Castiel said gravely. "I might've been able to block this."

"Yep, hindsight's twenty-twenty," Dean agreed impatiently. Sam expected him to trot out the "we're a pair of FBI agents, not the Three Stooges" argument again, but he didn't. "Can you fix him or not?"

Castiel paused. "He's not wounded, so I can't heal him."

He touched beneath Sam's chin. Sam was on his back on the map table in the bunker, uncomfortable against the hard surface but not about to ask for a coat again. Castiel had already explored every inch of his underside, while Sam bit at his cheek and tried not to move. It was a smooth expanse, apparently, no exposed trachea or spine or anything. Just skin, even a mole he was pretty sure was brand new, since this part of his anatomy didn't exist before.

"I'm not familiar with this sort of curse, either," Castiel went on, taking his hand back. "I could maybe break it with brute strength if I were at full power, but..." He trailed off again.

"Can you lift it anyway?" Dean almost demanded.

Sam glanced up at him as best he could, standing over him with his arms folded across his chest. He wanted to tell him they'd figure this out even if Castiel didn't have a quick fix. It was a curse, every curse was breakable. But Dean didn't look like he was in the mood to be placated by a literal talking head.

"What exactly was the situation?" Castiel asked, frowning, and Dean shook his head.

"Grossest of the gross," he stated. "Witch using body part magic, like normal witchcraft doesn't have enough of that. She made a deal with a nest of vamps."

"She'd help them find prey and avoid detection if they protected her, and gave her the bodies once they'd drained the blood." Sam spoke up. "For spell ingredients."

"Thank you, Dr. Brain," Dean said sarcastically, then snorted. "'Avoid detection.'"

Sam scowled.

"Hm." Castiel was still frowning. "I see." He glanced at Dean. "And you said you took care of the witch?"

"Double-tapped her with witch-killing bullets, burned the body. Didn't get so much as Sam's pinkie toe back."

"You eliminated all the vampires, too?" Castiel asked, blue eyes narrow.

"You think they'd have something to do with the curse?" Sam felt his forehead furrow.

"Now, I just want to be sure you got them all."

"For the second goddamn time, I checked myself." Dean tossed his hands up. "Seriously, Cas, just give it to us straight: can you get Sam his ass back or not?"

Castiel was quiet for a long time before offering up a thoughtful, "Maybe." He moved away, out of Sam's very limited field of vision. "I'll need to speak with some people. I should be back in several days."

He left then, and Dean went after him. "Who? We're comin', too!"

Sam was left alone in the bunker's entrance. He figured grabbing him had just slipped Dean's or even Castiel's mind. Then again, maybe it'd been on purpose. Calling out, "Uh, hey, Dean! I think you forgot something!" didn't get him an immediate answer.

Dean came back eventually. Sam heard him before he saw him, and could tell he was disgruntled from the almost-stomp of his bootsteps before his expression confirmed it. Sam was half-afraid he'd just walk on past, either "forgetting" him again or not even seeing him, but he grabbed his hair and put him upright. Sam gritted his teeth at the bright sting in his scalp as Dean sat down in front of him.

He didn't say anything, so Sam licked his lips and started: "What'd Cas say?"

"Wouldn't tell me who he's gonna talk to," Dean muttered. "Wouldn't let us go with him, either. Said..." He heaved a deep sigh. "You're in no shape to leave the bunker and I gotta take care of you."

There was a long pause where Sam tried to figure out if Dean was okay with that or resentful. He already knew he blamed him for what'd happened. This _wasn't_ his fault, Sam thought fiercely at the doubts that were beginning to creep in, but it felt an awful lot like Dean cleaning up another one of his messes. Like the demon blood. And the Trials. And releasing the Darkness by removing the Mark of Cain.

"Well, he's probably right," Sam said tentatively, testing the waters.

"Yeah." Dean sighed again, explosively. "Looks like we're stuck here, and me bein' pissed about that, or about you doing your best impression of that head in a jar we've got down in the basement, ain't gonna make it easier on either of us. Even if it totally is your fault." Unable to flip him off, and having already flashed a quarter of the bitchfaces in his arsenal since they'd gotten home, Sam stuck out his tongue. Dean, surprisingly, ignored it in a very mature manner. "So...whatcha wanna do?"

He stared at Sam expectantly for almost a full five seconds before Sam realized he actually wanted his input. Looked like he really wasn't mad at him anymore.

"I...guess we probably oughta hit the books." Sam tried to turn his head to look at the library and remembered very quickly he couldn't do that. "Y'know, do some research. Just in case whatever Cas has in mind doesn't pan out."

Dean scoffed out a little laugh. "What're you gonna do, flip the pages with your tongue? 'Cause I'm not doin' it for you. Not with how fast you read, nerd boy."

For a second, Sam actually considered it. But the prospect of paper cuts all over his tongue and, more importantly, the pictures Dean could take of him shut the idea down hard before too long.

"Look, dude." Dean leaned forward and put his hands on the table, making eye contact with Sam. This close up, _wow, _were his eyes green. Like the needles on a freshly-harvested Christmas tree. "Face it, you can't do anything." Sam pulled out a bitchface he hadn't used yet. "This is the best excuse you've had in...pretty much forever to take a break. And when's the last time you did that? When's the last time either of us did? Y'know, kick back, take a load off, put your - "

He stopped abruptly. Sam could tell by the way he uncomfortably swallowed his words that he'd been about to say "put your feet up."

It was Sam's turn to sigh. "If that's the case, then...guess we could put a dent in my Netflix list." After all, it wasn't like they could go to a resort or book a massage.

Dean nodded, like that was a good suggestion, then stood up and grabbed Sam. Once again, by the hair. But then he tucked him under his arm, and even though Dean was in serious need of a long shower or at least new deodorant after the hunt, it was much more comfortable than Sam's hair being used like the handle on a briefcase. Dean made a quick detour to the kitchen before going to his room.

"Guess you couldn't have a beer," Dean commented as he grabbed one for himself. "Where would it go?"

"Uh, I'm breathing." It hadn't occurred to Sam until right that second. "No idea where the air's going."

"Well, whatever." Dean closed the fridge door. "I'm definitely not bottle-feeding you."

They watched TV in Dean's room, working through a few movies and shorter shows Sam'd been wanting to see. And Sam was actually having fun despite himself. Downtime between hunts wasn't super rare or anything, but what was rare was having so much of it, potentially, and with Dean. Not to mention without the need to find a hunt or brush up on his lore or take care of his weapons or train to stay sharp gnawing ceaselessly at Sam like a hellhound that'd followed him back from the Pit after his last trip there. The urge was still present, but muted. An itch he knew he wouldn't even be able to find, let alone scratch.

There was still something missing. It didn't take Sam long to puzzle it out. Dean had set him on a pillow next to him, and it was comfortable enough, but there were none of the dozens, maybe hundreds of casual touches they usually shared over the course of the day while getting ready in the morning, sitting in the car, working, eating, relaxing.

All that was an important part of Sam's life. Just another side effect of their lifestyle, one they couldn't ever risk acknowledging or giving into. Like the alcoholism or the trust issues or the nightmares.

If Sam had his body, he could get his fix by bumping his knee against Dean's or leaning their shoulders casually together. Maybe even start a wrestling match over the remote if he were really aching. But with things as they were, Sam had to just sit here and...crave.

All things considered, though, it wasn't that bad. Not so bad he'd ask Dean to put him on his lap again or something. Sam did think about that but, much as he had turning pages with his tongue, rejected the idea quickly.

"You hungry?" Dean asked around seven, pausing_ Age of Ultron_ and getting up to, presumably, go grab dinner.

Sam wasn't. Wherever the rest of him was, he couldn't feel any part of it. Besides, he doubted Dean would've hand-fed him even if he had been hungry.

Later, Dean asked Sam if he was ready to call it a night. It'd been about forty hours since either of them had last gotten any real sleep, so Sam definitely was. Soon as he said so, Dean kicked off his boots and jeans, then headed into the half-bath off his bedroom, where Sam heard him take a leak and then brush his teeth, with a lot of gargling. He just sighed to himself and did the only thing he could: waited for Dean to get back. When he did, he seemed surprised Sam was still in the room.

"Oh," Dean said as Sam raised his eyebrows. "Right. Shit."

Dean carried Sam to his room, tucked under his arm again, and situated him on one of the pillows. The one closer to the nightstand than the desk. That came as a mild surprise to Sam, Dean knowing which side of the bed he preferred.

"You like sleeping on your side, right?" Dean asked after laying Sam down like that.

"It depends, but sure," Sam replied, closing his eyes.

Dean turned the lights off, but Sam didn't hear him leave. He was probably standing in the doorway, where Sam wouldn't've been able to see him even if he'd still had his eyes open.

"Sorry," Dean said. His voice was quiet, apologetic. "I'm not real...used to takin' care of you anymore."

"It's fine," Sam responded, matching Dean's register. "I'm not used to needing it."

There was one more pause from Dean before he left. "Yell if you need anything, you know how light I sleep."

* * *

Sam had no idea what time it was when he woke up again, or how long he'd been asleep. Honestly, it probably didn't matter. The weight of a full-blown panic attack crushed him down inside himself as soon as he was conscious, and time never made a difference to stuff like that.

He'd come out of a nightmare that started leaking from his memory as soon as he was free of it, something about his body rotting out from underneath him, and tried to move. He couldn't. Even though he'd never experienced sleep paralysis, he'd read about it, but of course he didn't remember that, since he couldn't even remember he'd been cursed. Sam's immediate assumption, then, was that he was in Hell. In the Cage. With Michael and Lucifer and the tattered, desiccated thing that'd used to be Adam.

Maybe Sam was bound up in the poisonous razor-ice of Lucifer's wings, or the brilliant, terrible fire of Michael's. Maybe he was so wounded he couldn't let himself move out of fear of falling apart. It'd happened before. Lucifer'd also torn his limbs off before, forced him to crawl along the floor of the Cage as nothing but a torso, in the freezing, burning valley between two furious and increasingly-unhinged archangels, but he couldn't even do that right now.

It never had any effect. It usually made things worse for Sam. But he screamed for Dean anyway, planned to scream his lungs right out of his chest. It was instinct. It was the only thing he could do. It might always be different tonight, the trillionth time.

It shocked Sam so bad his brain practically stalled, when Dean actually burst in and hit the light. He couldn't drop his guard right away. Lucifer knew him, knew everything about them, so he pulled out Dean's face whenever he really wanted to make Sam squirm.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay, I gotcha, Sammy," (maybe, hopefully) Dean soothed as he destroyed the distance between him and the bed with two long strides. "What's the matter?"

When he picked Sam up by the hair, Sam cried out. Sometimes, Lucifer called things off early if Sam just gave him the reaction he wanted. But then Dean _held_ Sam, cradling him against his chest and a T-shirt that smelled like sweat and sleep, and when the crushing agony Sam was expecting kept on failing to arrive, the Cage started to melt and reality seeped back in to replace it.

There were snatches, toxic flashes, putrid dregs and scraps that'd fallen off the bulk of Sam's memories of his time in Hell when Castiel scooped them out of him. Lurking in the most dangerous parts of his mind, they'd been enough to fuel a lifetime's worth of nightmares for years now. But it'd been so, so long since he'd had a flashback like that.

Sam tried not to. But with Dean sitting on his bed because Sam's frantic, reflexive shouting had brought him, and so little of Sam remaining Dean could hold him in his arms like a preterm baby, he couldn't help it. Sam started to cry.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled as he tried to force the tears back down where they belonged. "I shouldn't've...I'm okay, I'm okay, I promise. You can go."

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed. He stood up, but with Sam still in his arms, and went back to his room. Sam didn't say anything when he laid down. Neither did Dean. Just folded the covers down around his waist, crooked an arm to hold Sam close to him, and messed with his phone for about half an hour before falling back asleep. Like none of it was any big deal.

It'd been decades, easily, since they'd shared a bed. Even on the rare occasion they had to bunk down in a room that only had one, they fought over who got the mattress, and the loser made do with the floor or a cot. They just wouldn't've fit most of the time.

That wasn't a problem now, with Sam smaller than he'd been since before he was born. He'd forgotten how it felt for Dean to be the bigger brother.

How safe, how comforting. Especially in the dark.

* * *

The next morning started off awkward. Dean definitely wasn't forgetting Sam anymore, at least. And being carried around under his arm wasn't bad now that he'd had a shower, but not being able to go anywhere on his own was both frustrating as hell and humiliating for Sam. Especially because Dean was treating him like someone put him together out of eggshells and spun glass, like even mentioning last night or the curse or _hunting_ would shatter Sam into a million weepy pieces.

Sam was sick of it after an hour, went off on Dean about not treating him like he was dying just because he'd had a nightmare and was missing nearly ninety percent of himself. What'd happened to it all being his fault? That must've been enough to prove he was okay, because Dean was back to normal after that. A little too normal. Sam should've just kept his mouth shut.

Dean seemed to forget what he was carrying every once in a while, tossing Sam up in the air like a basketball and catching him as he walked. He apologized, but according to him, there was no way he'd ever drop him. He also made fun of Sam's "girly" yelping.

He was in a decent mood, having caught up on his sleep, and the only thing that soured him at all was when he called Castiel every few hours and got a cryptic conversation or no answer at all. He didn't seem pissed at Sam over what'd happened anymore. But he was obviously still needled some by it, with all the (lighthearted, admittedly) jabs he was throwing. Like a painfully-inaccurate version of Hamlet's "to be or not to be" speech, delivered while holding Sam aloft in one hand and ignoring his protests that that wasn't the part of the play when he'd been holding a skull.

And then there were the puns.

"Neck's startin' to hurt me, better pop some aspirin. Head that right off."

"Whoa, Sammy, jeez, calm down...guess it's all coming to a head, right?"

"C'mon, let's head on over to your room for a while."

"I'd ask if you wanna hit a bar tonight, but you've got no body to go with."

"Remember how you were always bitchin' about how knobby your knees are?" This one was a twofer, a head pun and a riff on the question that damn witch had asked him. "Guess you should've appreciated 'em more. Hair today, gone tomorrow."

If Sam ground his teeth anymore, he was going to need a lot more dental work than just some basic chip repair.

Sam was sitting on the kitchen counter, still seething over the last comment, while Dean made a box of Easy Mac for lunch when the bunker's front door opened. The big, heavy, iron one at the top of the stairs. Bone conduction was a hell of a thing; Sam felt it more than heard it.

He blinked, then looked at Dean, who was still merrily stirring the macaroni in a way that maximized the annoying squelching sounds. He wasn't surprised he hadn't heard anything. After hundreds of thousands of gunshots, rock concerts, and angel tantrums, Dean was pretty much deaf.

"Did you...did you lock the door yesterday?" Sam asked, frowning.

The squelching paused. "Think so, yeah." Dean pulled the spoon out of the pot with a very loud _suuuck_. "Why?"

"Somebody just opened it."

Dean looked at Sam for a second, his bearing shifting subtly. "Cas?"

"Wouldn't he come in through the garage?" Sam pointed out.

Dean swore quietly, then turned the stove off and put a lid on the pot of macaroni. Grabbing Sam, he turned off all the lights in the kitchen, then toed off his boots and moved silently through the bunker. When they reached the library, which had a clear view of the entrance, Dean stayed in the shadows so they could peer out.

There were three people out there, a man by the map table, a woman on the stairs, and another man leaning in through the open door. They were all perfectly normal-looking, thirties or forties, jeans and jackets. The only weird thing was that the guy near the table, wearing a stocking cap, was sniffing the air. Like a dog. Snug in the curve of Dean's arm, Sam watched Stocking Cap's upper lip curl, and jagged, half-translucent shark teeth sink out of his gums. Then he headed for the kitchen at a jog, the other two hurrying after him.

Dean backed up, retreating deeper into the bunker in the opposite direction. Sam waited to talk until they were a level below the library, near Dean's room.

"So," Sam said, clearing a throat he didn't currently have. "Looks like vampires."

"Yep," Dean agreed shortly.

"Well, y'know...we just _had_ a case with vampires," Sam said. "It seems like a pretty big coincidence. But you said you got all of them. Twice."

"Lotta vampire nests out there, Sam," Dean replied, sort of loudly. "Which is just fuckin' stupid, with everybody somehow thinking they were extinct for thirty years or whatever, but still. Lotta nests. They could be from any one of those."

"Be a _huge _coincidence," Sam repeated as Dean opened his door. "For them to find the bunker. Now. Almost like they followed us, 'cause they've got an axe to grind, for..._some_ reason..."

"What're you trying to say here, Sam?" Dean turned on the light.

"That you're about as good at killing vampires as you are at locking the door."

"Mm," Dean said, then declared, "Quit while you're ahead, Sammy." With clear emphasis on "ahead," he lobbed Sam underhand onto his mattress.

Sam hit the pillows, bounced, and landed upright on his jaw, somehow not knocking his teeth together. He'd managed to keep from yelling, but only so the vampires wouldn't come investigate.

"I could've hit the wall, Dean," Sam told him. "Since it seems like you're losing your vision." He paused for dramatic effect, then raised both eyebrows. "So fangs for that."

"Okay." Dean held up both hands, rocking back on his heels. "Truce. We both fucked up on this last hunt, okay? I'll own that. I'll stop. Just..._please_ never try and make a pun again because." He shook his head, and Sam's mouth and eyebrows drew tight. "Christ, man. That was just - bad. I seriously might have cancer now."

"Fuck you. Jerk," Sam snapped, belligerent.

"Fuck you right back. Bitch," Dean replied without missing a beat.

He went for his weapons then. Handgun, machete. He muttered to himself as he dug through his desk and dresser: "Dead man's blood is down in storage, huh? Crap." Sam was quiet, listening to the blood pumping through his head (because he still had a heartbeat; he was gonna do so much research on the magical theory of trans-physical displacement once he got his body back), then spoke up after a while.

"Are you gonna leave me in here?"

"Like hell I am," Dean replied grimly. "One of those fangs sneaks past me, you're a sitting duck."

Did Sam even have enough blood in him right now to interest them? They definitely hadn't looked like they were starving, which would make sense if they were the witch's vamps. If they were, though, and they were here to avenge her, how much blood Sam did or didn't have wouldn't make a difference.

"You can't carry me in one hand and hack off heads with the other, though," Sam said with a frown, seeing an immediate problem with Dean bringing him along. It wasn't like he wanted to stay here. The thought of Dean going out there to fight a fractured nest of vampires on his own gave him a feeling like his missing heart was sitting lead-heavy on his tongue. But Sam knew he couldn't provide anything resembling backup right now. He was a liability.

It was a familiar feeling for him. But familiarity didn't stop a knife from hurting when it unzipped a scar for the dozenth time.

"Hmm." Dean gave Sam a thoughtful look as he tucked his gun into his jeans, draping T-shirt and flannel over the butt so no one but him would have an easy time grabbing it. "You know what, you're right."

He took one of his pillows, shook it free of its case. Sam squinted concernedly as he knotted the fabric around his waist, taking way too long to figure out what he was doing.

"Uh-uh," Sam stated when Dean lifted him into the air, firmly. "This is a bad idea, trust me. It's not gonna work."

"C'mon, Sammy, live a little." Dean brought Sam up to eye level and gave him a wounded look, then wedged him into his makeshift sling. "And would it kill you to have a little faith in me?"

"I had faith about the vampires," Sam answered clearly. "And look how that turned out." The handle of the machete knocked purposely against his skull when Dean grabbed it.

Resting almost perfectly on Dean's hip, there wasn't much Sam could do besides stay quiet as he left his room and went looking for vampires. If he had to say one thing about Dean's pillowcase contraption, it was a snug fit. There'd be little danger of him falling out...just so long as he wasn't grabbed.

They found the first one, the woman, on the stairs back up to the first level. Wearing a cardigan and a messy bun, she was almost as startled as they were. She recovered quickly, though, fangs dropping as she hissed and crouched.

"Uh oh, you guys split up?" Dean asked, faking concern as he readied his machete arm. "Now that just ain't smart. You'd think you've never seen a horror movie." He caught her perfectly through the neck when she charged, swing expertly twisted just a little so her snarling head went one way and her body another, and the inevitable arterial fan splattered the wall rather than Dean. It was a useful trick, one Sam had never been quite able to master.

"You're sure in a good mood," Sam commented as Dean wiped his machete off on the vampire's cardigan, whistling. The _For cleaning up a mess you kept insisting you didn't make_ went unsaid.

"You kidding?" Dean replied. "I never get to show off for you like this." Sam couldn't see his face, of course, but it sounded like he was grinning.

They found a second vampire in the hallway, and a third in the library. Dean was able to sneak up on the former. The latter gave him a little bit of trouble in the form of fangs grazing his forearm, ripping the flannel with a sound that was just a little too close to the one tearing flesh made, but he got the head off anyway. Sam made a face as some of the blood got just a little too close to the books. The cleanup on this was going to be an absolute bitch, with all the corpses and bodily fluids. And Sam wouldn't be able to help, probably.

"That was three," Sam told Dean, eyesockets aching as he tried to get a look at his arm to figure out whether or not he'd actually gotten hurt. "You think we're done?"

"Not unless some of 'em went back out," Dean answered. "Those last two weren't with 'em when they first came in."

He was right, Sam realized. Both vampires had been male, but neither were wearing a stocking cap.

"The bunker's got a-an...intruder detection system, kind of," Sam began, after furiously brainstorming ways he could help. "I read about it. It's a spell matrix. It might not work anymore, but if it does, then when you activate it, it shows you how many people are in the bunker and where. Tells you what they are, too, if the system recognizes the species."

"Just when I thought you couldn't possibly be a bigger nerd," Dean said with a sigh, then paused. "But thanks, Sammy." He awkwardly patted Sam's scalp. "I'll give that a whirl soon as I'm finished clearing this floor, just to be sure."

The kitchen was the next stop, Sam analyzing the rolling rhythm of Dean's walk on the way there and deciding, for his own sanity, that it was soothing rather than annoying. The lights were still off, and Dean checked out the whole huge thing in darkness. He was pretty quiet, too, for having put his boots back on. Working beside Dean, focused on his own movements rather than observing, and especially with how long they'd been at it, it was easy for Sam to forget what a damn good hunter Dean actually was. It was like watching a cougar in action. A stocky, bow-legged, freckled cougar. Something that had been designed to do what it was doing perfectly, and that took great pleasure in it just because of what it was. Dean where he was meant to be was poetry, art.

This must be what he'd meant by getting to show off.

Once the kitchen had proven itself empty, Dean slipped back out of hunter mode and turned on the lights. The fluorescent buzz dug in somewhere behind Sam's eyes as Dean went over to the stove an lifted the lid off his Easy Mac.

"Crap." Dean swore "Freakin' vamps. It's all..." Sam got the feeling he was looking down at him. "You know how it gets."

Sam would've snidely responded that healthy food wasn't supposed to start looking like candle wax if you left it alone for half an hour, but a fast-moving shadow snagged suddenly on the corner of his eye. _"Dean - "_

The cougar metaphor extended to Dean's reflexes. He'd set his machete down on the counter (gross), but he had it back in his hand and carving out a gleaming arc before the vampire could get within two feet of him. With that kind of speed, Sam supposed he could be forgiven for his aim being off. The blade ground almost effortlessly through meat and bone, but it was a hand that hit the tile, not a head.

The vamp howled, fangs on full display. He clutched his gushing stump as he whirled away from Dean. Blood splashed his legs and the butcher block, and Sam felt something unpleasantly wet and warm slap heavy into his hair. The air reeked of copper.

This vampire, falling hard to its knees with a wail of stunned agony, wasn't wearing a stocking cap, either. Looked like it was the one who'd been leaning through the doorway. Dean strode forward to take its head anyway.

He didn't quite make it. Something pulled his attention to the side half a second before a fist _thwock_ed into his face; he didn't even have enough warning to get the machete up. Dean staggered, Sam bouncing crazily on his hip, but stayed on his feet and kept his weapon. They'd come at him from the side Sam wasn't on this time. That was why he hadn't been able to say anything.

"I think you've taken enough of my nest from me," someone snarled. Dean had turned towards him, so Sam could see it was Stocking Cap. He knew they'd killed the leader, before the witch, even. This one must have stepped up to fill the power vacuum.

"Jesus, man, when's the last time you washed that hat?" Dean asked thickly. Must've got him in the nose. Machete up and bleeding off the sharp edge, he advanced on Stocking Cap, the whimpering, handless vampire on the ground apparently forgotten. "You gotta take it off sometimes, let your scalp brea - "

Another vampire hit him, fast and hard, again on Sam's blind side. A second punch to the face that had Dean spinning, one to the gut that doubled him over. A knee in his solar plexus forced him to drop the machete, which Sam saw clatter off to rest against one of the industrial refrigerators. When the new vampire hit him a fourth time, Dean finally went down.

Sam tumbled out of the pillowcase with a yell he did his best to stifle, hitting the hard floor crown-first. Migraine-level pain lanced flash-quick through his entire skull, and he rocked onto the hinges and points of his jaw, somehow upright. It was probably for the best, though. Dean had come down hard on the side he'd been carrying Sam on, panting and groaning. His nose was looking puffy, blood ringing one nostril, and his left eye was swelling. He'd folded automatically and protectively around his stomach.

Even as he sucked wind without sounding like he was getting enough, Sam saw him grit his teeth and reach for the gun at the small of his back. Even a vampire would be slowed down by a bullet to the knee. Unfortunately, Stocking Cap got there first, snatching the gun out of Dean's jeans and tossing it carelessly away. For good measure, the other vampire (a woman with a blonde pixie cut that reminded Sam uncomfortably of Meg Masters) delivered a vicious kick to his kidney. Dean jerked, and screamed through gritted teeth.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. Even without lungs or vocal cords, he was loud: both vampires looked at him. Stocking Cap burst into incredulous laughter.

"Oh my god, what the hell's that?" Stocking Cap started walking towards him, and Sam tensed. If he tried to pick him up, he'd bite off as many fingers as he could fit in his mouth.

Except no, he wouldn't. Because then he'd have vampire blood in his system and be doubly fucked.

He shouldn't have worried, anyway; Stocking Cap only took a couple steps towards him and then stopped.

"Guess some of the stuff Irene threw at you two shambling piles of flannel actually stuck," Stocking Cap commented to Dean. "Y'know, Irene? Our witch?" Dean had rolled onto his back, struggling to get a breath. Stocking Cap kicked at his bent legs, but lightly. "The one you killed? Along with about a dozen of my brothers and sisters...which reminds me." He looked at the blonde vampire. "Tori, Russell's blubbering's about to drive me nuts. You wanna take care of his arm?"

"How?" Tori snapped, heading over to the vampire who was indeed still crying about his severed hand.

"I don't know, we're in a kitchen. _Figure it out_," Stocking Cap snapped right back. Tori rolled her eyes, stomped over to Russell, and hauled him to his feet. Stocking Cap waited until they were down at the other end of the kitchen, where the stoves were, to turn his attention back to Dean.

"Y'know, Irene might not've had fangs like the rest of us, but she was every bit as much a member of our nest," Stocking Cap said almost sweetly, leaning over Dean with an ugly, razor-edged sneer. "Not that I expect you to get what that means. What would a hunter know about family?"

Dean sucked in a painful-sounding breath. Face gray and voice strained, he managed, "You must not know who I am."

Stocking Cap laughed at that, like he had at Sam. "What, you famous or something? What good's me knowing your name gonna do, asshole?"

"You could say that." Dean cocked his weight onto one hip. Sam caught it, wasn't sure the vampire did. "And if you did, you'd know I'm the _last _person you oughta be talkin' about family to."

His torso snapped, all the strength in his body going into his legs as they whipped Stocking Cap's feet out from under him. Obviously not as bad off as he'd looked, Dean was up almost as soon as the vampire hit the floor. Probably thinking he'd grab the machete, Stocking Cap scrambled frantically towards it, but Dean wasn't interested in the machete. He was going for Sam.

"I'd like you to meet - " Dean grabbed up an impressive handful of Sam's hair, strands winding tight around thick fingers. " - my _brother_!"

"Dean. Dean, wait, no, no, no no _no_ \- " Sam's shouting, increasingly panicked as Dean swung him, didn't stop him from smashing into Stocking Cap's temple with the full force of Dean's arm.

The hat offered no cushion whatsoever.

Red-black pulsed bitter across Sam's vision, filling up his whole head with the ache of bone-on-bone impact. He didn't see stars, but he was reeling for what felt like a solid minute after; he heard the _clink _of Dean picking up the machete and then the gristly noise of him chopping off a vampire's head, so Stocking Cap must've dropped like a rock.

Tucked under Dean's arm again, and with a killer headache careening off the walls of his skull, Sam watched Dean make short work of Tori and then Russell on the other side of the kitchen. They'd had a burner on and had been trying to cauterize Russel's stump with it, so that was another mess to clean up.

Dean turned off the burner, set his machete down on the counter again. Then he held Sam out in front of him so he could look him in the eyes, grinning under bruises that were already starting to purple up.

"If you're around, I don't even need a machete, huh?" Dean exclaimed. "Best weapon I've got!"

"Bite me," Sam replied, even though it hurt to talk.

* * *

The magical intruder scan did indeed work, although it looked like the spell was running out of juice; they might have to get Rowena in here to recharge it. Sam walked Dean through the steps as he remembered them. There weren't any vampires left in the bunker, but it looked like they had a rat problem.

"Probably 'cause of that week-old pizza you've got under your bed," Sam observed.

"How d'you know about that?" Dean demanded. "I mean. I don't have any pizza under my bed. What're you talking about?"

With Sam slung on his hip again, Dean rolled the vampires and their assorted severed body parts in tarps and plastic; there were days when Sam felt like they were singlehandedly keeping the plastic sheeting industry in business. He piled them out in the garage, to be driven out, thrown in a grave, and burned later. Then he got to work mopping and wiping up the blood.

Sam's head was thrumming dully, pain nestled in his sinuses and all the other hollows of his skull since Dean had clocked Stocking Cap with him, and there was a hot, stretched tenderness on the side where he'd hit. But Dean walking, bending, and leaning put him slowly to sleep, just like the rocking of a boat or, in his case, the movement of the Impala. He guessed there was a reason people walked around with babies to get them to quiet down.

Dean woke him by clearing his throat and saying, "Good thing we don't have a whole lotta carpet, huh?"

"Yeah, lucky," Sam agreed roughly.

Dean sighed deeply, sounding massively tired. "I'm real sorry about earlier."

"What?" Sam needed a minute.

"Y'know." Dean stopped, and the silence felt distinctly embarrassed. "Using you to knock out a vampire."

"Oh, you actually knocked him out?" Sam asked mildly. "I mean, yeah, definitely felt like you hit him hard enough."

Dean sucked his teeth. "Looks like I gave you a real nice goose egg, too." The mop _shlick_ed over the floor, then Dean wrung it out in the bucket. "Anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"You could wash my hair." Sam's stubble caught on the fabric of Dean's pillowcase when he talked, just like it had his jeans back when he'd had him in his lap.

Dean stopped mopping. "What?"

"Uh, I got...there's blood in my hair, and even if there wasn't, it'd probably need washing by now, anyway," Sam began uncertainly. He hadn't been thinking, maybe he shouldn't have asked for that. "And it's...it's not like I can do it myself. So. Wash my hair?"

He cringed at how he sounded on that last question. Like a little kid begging for something he knew he wasn't getting. But Dean went back to swabbing the kitchen after a second.

"Sure," he agreed. "I can do that. Just lemme finish up with this."

Once the kitchen was free of vamp blood, Dean went to Sam's room, grabbing his shower caddy off his dresser. He set him on the lip of his sink, facing the mirror, so Sam saw Dean's face for the first time in hours. His eye was swollen almost completely shut, a plum-colored knot on the side of his face, bloody sclera barely visible behind his matted lashes. His nose was so puffy his freckles disappeared into the red, shiny skin. Looked like it might be broken again. Vampires hit hard. Sam hissed sympathetically.

"Dean, you need to put some ice on that." They were old hand at busted noses and black eyes, so he couldn't believe Dean hadn't taken care of it already. "And have Cas fix it up soon as he gets back."

"Soon as Cas gets back, he's fixin' _you _up," Dean corrected, turning on the water and putting a hand under it. Cool droplets flecked Sam's face. "Which reminds me. I oughta call him again, see if I can't find out what's up." The water got warm, then hot. "But yeah, there's a bag of peas in the freezer with my name on 'em. I'm just gonna get you cleaned up first."

Dean went to pick Sam up by the hair, but this time, Sam quietly said, "That hurts."

"Seriously?" Dean grabbed him on either side with both hands instead. "Why the hell didn't you say something earlier?"

Dean held him under water that was somehow the perfect temperature, making sure his face stayed out of it while he wet his hair all the way through. The lump on his head stung when it got wet, but it was tolerable. Sam closed his eyes.

Dean turned the water off, set Sam down on the edge of the sink again. He squeezed some shampoo out, started to work it thoroughly into his hair, and he was using too much, but that was okay. Especially considering what Sam had gotten all over him. Eyes still closed, Sam could've said he was drowning in the contact. It filled him up and covered him. But drowning didn't feel anywhere near as nice as Dean's hands, calluses scraping Sam's ears, blunt fingernails massaging his scalp, being very careful of the sore spot. Sam could've drifted off again if Dean hadn't spoken up.

"You remember the last time I did this?" Dean asked quietly. Sam thought about it, but no, he didn't. "You were pretty little. Maybe five or six. I was givin' you a bath 'cause that was, y'know, my job, while Dad was gone, taking care of you. He got home before I was done and he was in a mood." Maybe Sam did remember, actually. At least it sounded familiar. "You know how he got, probably a hunt gone bad. Made a big stink about me babying you, and how you were more than old enough to start doing stuff like that on your own...anyway, so I never washed your hair again."

"Oh," Sam said softly. There was another long silence. Once again, Dean, still working Sam's hair like clay, broke it.

"Actually, that ain't quite true. I did it one other time after that, but you weren't...you weren't there." Dean paused. "It was when you died. The first time. Before I made the deal, I...I cleaned you up. Your hair, at least." Foam crept down Sam's forehead. "And I know that was weird, and I'm sorry, but I just...couldn't let it go. It was so gross, and I knew you'd hate that. Since you're so prissy about it." Dean stopped again, and Sam almost literally heard him working up a joke to force weakly out. "Putting it ahead of your legs and all."

Sam let the jibe slide as he thought about how clean his hair had felt when he'd woken up days after Jake stabbed him. He'd honestly been more focused on the ache in his back and the (literal, as it turned out) taste of death in his mouth, but it'd still seemed odd, since he'd been able to distinctly remember the greasy weight of his hair when he'd collapsed against Dean with blood slicking into his underwear. Days fighting demons in Cold Oak hadn't done any part of him any favors.

"Thank you," Sam told Dean. "For doing that for me."

"Don't know why I did it," Dean muttered. "Super weird, lookin' back."

"No, no, I..." As Dean turned the water back on and started rinsing the shampoo out of Sam's hair, Sam thought about bringing Dean's body home, laying it on his bed, cleaning the blood gently off his face. Touching the Mark, still hot even though Dean had been cold for hours, wishing he could carve it and everything it'd done right out of him. "I get it. Trust me."

Dean took him out from under the faucet, letting his hair drip down the wall of the sink. He hesitated over Sam's shower caddy. "Uh...?"

"Conditioner next," Sam directed. "About half as much as the shampoo you used, and start at the ends...do you seriously not use conditioner, dude?"

"Some of us have great-looking hair without having to slap ten different kindsa slime on it every day." Frowning, Dean thumbed shampoo or water off Sam's eyebrow. Warmth bloomed slowly through Sam as Dean grappled with the conditioner bottle.

"Your hair's _okay_," Sam conceded, exaggeratedly. "Definitely not worth a pair of legs." Dean eyed him like the joke came as a surprise. "Or a whole body. Or your brother going crazy having to carry you around all over the place."

Dean was quiet for a minute as he got started with the conditioner. Just like Sam had told him, he did the ends first and worked his way backwards to his scalp. He spoke up eventually: "Hey, wanna hear something even weirder than me washing your hair when you were dead? Something just...totally stupid." A pause. "But you gotta promise me you ain't gonna say anything about it."

"Okay," Sam agreed after a second, confused. "I won't."

"I miss taking care of you like this," Dean said abruptly. "And I know, life sucked when you were a baby, you don't gotta remind me, and what's going on right now is pretty shitty, too. Sure you can attest to that. But I miss..." Dean trailed off, then heavily finished, "You needing me."

"Dean, of course I still need you." Sam's reaction burst out of him, immediate and shocked. "_Bad_. Isn't that...I mean, hasn't that been the reason behind pretty much all the messes we've made over the years?" He swallowed, wondering for the hundredth time where the saliva went. "I'm always gonna need you. How could you think I don't?"

"Told you it was stupid," Dean muttered before wetting Sam's hair for the third time. With water rushing past his ears, Sam didn't even bother to tell Dean he needed to leave the conditioner on for a few minutes, because he actually did know how he could think he didn't need him. Stanford. Jess. Ruby. Amelia. Everyone and everything he'd ever chosen over him.

Sam was silent as Dean rinsed his hair clean. He didn't say anything when he went ahead and washed his face and shaved the overgrowth of stubble, either, not even that he'd have made a great cosmetologist. Sam had had a special relationship with words for most of his life, whether they were in books or websites or his own mouth. They spoke to him, buoyed him up, and he could only hope they didn't fail him now. Because what he wanted to say, it was so important it came out right.

"I need you," Sam said, sitting in Dean's hands, dripping into the sink. "I've always needed you, and you've...you've done so much for me, you've given me everything, and I've...I don't think I've ever done enough."

"Can't do a whole lot right now," Dean pointed out. "And of course you need me. Can't even walk."

"No, you're not getting it," Sam argued. "Even before this, and even after I get my body back: I needed you. I'm gonna need you. You're my big brother, and I-I'm an adult, but I've never really been normal, have I?"

Dean didn't answer that, probably not sure whether or not it was a trick question.

"I'm gonna need you to take care of me when I'm sick, or hurt, or cursed," Sam went on. "I need you to talk to me and tell me I'm a nerd and my jokes suck. I need you to hold me after a nightmare. I need you to _touch_ me. And I - " His voice cracked like it hadn't since he was seventeen. "I know I should've started asking for all this years ago."

Sam stared up at Dean.

"I need you," he said helplessly. "Forever. No matter how big I am or how much of me there is. It's killing me that you don't know that. And it's killing me that I don't know what you need from me."

Dean cocked his head, looking down at Sam, water pattering off the porcelain. His uninjured eye was unnaturally bright, backlit emerald, a little red around the edges.

"So should we go ahead and exchange rings now?" he asked.

Sam closed his eyes, groaning involuntarily.

"What, were those not your wedding vows?" Dean plunked Sam down on the corner of the sink and started brusquely toweling him off. "You could put mine on me with your teeth. And bet you could wear yours on your nose, got the pointiest one ever."

Sam groaned again. "Dean."

"Could put an eye out with that thing. Should've aimed that at the vampire."

"Dean - " Sam gave up. "Just...make sure you brush my hair, okay? It's gonna tangle."

Dean finished drying Sam off, probably like he would a dog, and then he actually did dig his brush out. As he threaded it very precisely through the damp strands, he spoke in a conversational tone.

"What I need," Dean started, "is for you to come with me while I go strap a bag of peas to my face. Then I need you to take a nap with me, 'cause I'm beat, and no old-man jokes, I killed six vampires all by myself today." He ghosted the brush over Sam's goose egg. "And then I need you to help me call Cas and get a status report on you having four limbs again, and after that, I _really _need you to watch that new _Conjuring _movie with me so we can make fun of it."

Sam let Dean finish brushing his hair before he quietly replied, "Okay."

They got the peas. As Dean walked back to his room, pressing the bag to his face with one hand and holding Sam with the other, Sam asked, "How's your back? Where that vamp kicked you."

"Fine," Dean replied. From the sound of his voice, his nose was almost certainly broken again. "Don't need surgery or anything. Might piss some blood for a couple days, though." With a smirk in his voice, he added, "Bet you wish you could piss."

"Don't miss it all that much, actually." Dean laid down, Sam held close enough to his chest to feel his heartbeat, as soon as they reached his room. He groaned once he was laid out flat on the bed. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Dean lifted Sam so he could grin at him. "Headrush."

Sam sighed in disgust, somehow fighting not to smile at the same time. "Soon as I get my body back, I'm kicking your ass."

Dean snickered. "You don't have the guts, brain-boy."


End file.
